


O Magnum Mysterium

by Unforth



Series: I Dream of Deanie [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Sex, Bisexual Dean, Castiel's Point of View, Destiel - Freeform, Grace Kink, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porny Plot, There's Actually a Little Plot, There's No Word for Castiel's Sexuality, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I Dream of Deanie" Part 8. Dean's getting better at asking for what he wants. He thinks Castiel has been holding out on him...and he's right. Destiel PWP set vaguely S5-ish. Continuation of "Moonlight and Water."</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Magnum Mysterium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustyjournal (ls14)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dustyjournal+%28ls14%29), [thecrazyhippieone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrazyhippieone/gifts).



> Part 8 of the "I Dream of Deanie" Series.
> 
> Part 1: "Can't Hold a Man's Dreams Against Him"  
> Part 2: "The First Time, Again"  
> Part 3: "They're Good For Your Heart"  
> Part 4: "Emotional Constipation"  
> Part 5: "This Story is Definitely Not About a Date"  
> Part 6: "There But For the Grace of Castiel"  
> Part 7: "Moonlight and Water"
> 
> I have had 3 requests for Wing Kink. This is the resulting story.
> 
> ...it's not actually as wing kink as it really should be...sorry about that...I'll make it up to you by writing more wing kink in the future...cause I personally *really* like wing kink, and am thrilled to discover that others also really like wing kink. :)
> 
> The title is taken from a chant associated with Matins at Christmas. (Matins is part of the monastic liturgy that I know way too much about because of all the Brother Cadfael mysteries I've read...). In English, it means "Oh, Great Mystery." In my Author's End Notes, there's a Youtube link to a lovely version of it, if you'd care to hear what it sounds like. (It's beautiful. A madrigal group I was in while in grad school sang it, and I adore it.)
> 
> I really wanted to get this fic out this weekend. I'm a bisexual woman, and my wife and I have spent the whole weekend celebrating the SCOTUS decision that makes our union recognized throughout the United States. For me, getting this fic done became somehow a part of that celebration, for all that it doesn't involve marriage (uh, spoilers, it doesn't involve marriage. :) ) Just...writing gay porn, and marrying a woman, both are part of my personal rebellion against heteronormativity. :) So yeah...YAY marriage!
> 
> This fic is for LittleCinch on FFdotnet and dustyjournal and thecrazyhippieone on AO3.
> 
> New and improved! The awesome [grrlplay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grrlplay/pseuds/grrlplay) helped me out by betaing this not long after I posted it! So honored and flattered that she took the time - and spotted some darn silly mistakes I'd made. Thank you!! :)

There was definitely a pattern in the disappearances along Interstate 40. The assailant had finally made a mistake in Swannanoa, North Carolina, allowing enough of a victim to be found – albeit torn to shreds – to draw the attention of those able to recognize that something out of the ordinary had happened. Dating back to when the Beale Wagon Road was laid out to California in the mid-19th century, sometimes travelers along the road vanished. The remains were those of Maureen Lindsey, who had disappeared in 1952 when she was 72 years old. The blood was fresh. The authorities were convinced that it must be her child or grandchild, a near-relative, but no such person existed. Thus far, Sam, Dean and Castiel had been unable to narrow down their suspect list – had Lindsey been made into a vampire? Maybe it was a case of long-term demonic possession? Perhaps some sort of fay was involved? No amount of pouring over the array of newspaper articles they had gathered had revealed. They needed more information.

A disappearance had taken place eight years ago in eastern Tennessee, and whence Sam had gone for the day to see if he could learn more. Castiel and Dean were left to study what they already knew, posit alternative theories of the case, and wait for the police to contact “FBI Agent Jez Lowe” with their analysis of the blood samples. For no reason he could put his finger on, Castiel was not optimistic about what they would find. With an irritated snort that rippled the pages spread on the flimsy table, Dean put aside the witness statement he’d been reading: an interview with Lindsey’s husband, conducted at the time of her disappearance. The man had been suspected by the police but nothing had been proven, and he’d died the following year. Castiel had read it three times, and was certain it was worthless and that Robert Lindsey was innocent of any wrong doing. Pushing his chair back, the unpadded metal feet making a scraping sound of fibers snagging that sent a surprisingly unpleasant tingling through Castiel’s skin, Dean rose and went to the motel room door.

“Spread ‘um,” said Dean, tugging the deadbolt into place with a sharp click of metal.

Confused, Castiel looked up from a map they’d drawn indicating the location of all 22 disappearances that had taken place during the past 151 years. Across the room, Dean pulled the curtains closed and glanced at Castiel over his shoulder with an enticing smirk.

This was the most barebones room they’d stayed in together. A card table, worn metal frame chairs, and a sofa bed with squealing springs were the only pieces of furniture. The bathroom didn’t even have a shower. The alternative had been sharing a nicer room with Sam, but even that room only had one bed. None of the three had seriously considered that an alternative. Sam had increasingly started demanding his room be as far from theirs as could be managed, and had joked once or twice about staying at a different motel all together.

Their eyes met, and Dean winked suggestively. Tentatively, Castiel distributed the documents, photographs and articles about the table, spreading them out for easier perusal. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Not the damn research,” Dean said. “We’ve earned a break from looking at that useless shit.” His green eyes glowed in the dim interior of the room. “You’ve been holding out on me. Spread ‘um.” The room was small, and though Dean stood across it, he was only 7.4 feet away. The air between them crackled with energy, restrained eagerness confirming Castiel’s suspicion that Dean meant something related to sex. The thought sent a reciprocal tingle through Castiel, the temptation irresistible. Grace swelled to abrade against soul, Castiel’s dick swelled to abrade against the soft fabric of his underclothes.

Rising, Castiel faced Dean, a shy smile barely masking his intense interest. “The meaning of these innuendos eludes me,” Castiel confessed. “My understanding of the term ‘holding out on someone’ is that it means ‘to deny them sexual favors,’ usually for manipulative ends. As we have had some form of intercourse five – no, six – times in the past four days, I do not see how it applies to our situation.” Dean’s smirk grew into a broad grin that showed his teeth, mirth and desire burnishing his eyes. Emboldened by Dean’s obvious enjoyment of his response, Castiel continued, “of course, if you wish me to spread myself, you only have to ask.”

Casually, Castiel undid his tie, smoothed it and draped it over the back of the chair he’d risen from. He shrugged out of his trench coat, deliberate movements an enticing counter point to the way Dean licked his lips hungrily, the way Castiel’s heart began to patter, the way grace and soul incongruously interwove the lyrics of “Feel Like Making Love” with the melody of “O Magnum Mysterium.” The coat joined the tie, length pooling about the chair legs.

Dean appeared on the verge of saying something, but Castiel turned his meticulous attention to removing off his jacket, folding it neatly, and placing it on his chair. Dean’s eyes widened, and he clamped his mouth shut. The fabric of Dean’s pants shifted noticeably. With effort, Castiel restrained his grace so that their metaphysical selves did not get too far ahead of their physical selves. In the several weeks since their bond had formed, they’d discovered that if they were not careful, the frolicking of soul and grace would push them both into orgasm before either would have liked, robbing them of all manner of enticing foreplay.

The past month had been a learning experience in many ways. There was much for Castiel to learn about his new needs. His vessel had always functioned best when he kept it well-supplied with air, but it had not needed other forms of imbibed sustenance. Such was no longer the case. While he did not require as much food and drink and sleep as a human, he now needed some, and found it easiest to match Dean’s schedule for consumption and rest. Likewise, Dean appeared to have derived benefits from their connection: he had greater stamina, needed less rest, and he could see magical auras and sense energy sources. Both suspected that Dean could now look upon Castiel’s true form and hear his voice without ill effect, but by unspoken agreement, they hadn’t tested this hypothesis. The risks if they were wrong were too great. From his novice beginnings, Dean had rapidly grown proficient at using his soul to drive Castiel’s body absolutely wild with pure, unadulterated, uncontainable _want_. Castiel had yet to figure out how to do the same to Dean.

Deft fingers went to the collar of his shirt, Castiel’s eyes never leaving Dean’s, as Dean clenched and unclenched his firt, quivering with the effort of not crossing the space between them and helping Castiel remove his clothing. One button at a time, Castiel undid his shirt, fingers shaking under the intensity of Dean’s scrutiny. Soul reached out and teased, ever so lightly, over the growing triangle of Castiel’s exposed chest. The hunter let out his breath in a loud rush. Untucking the shirt, Castiel carefully smoothed the fabric of the wrinkles made when he’d bunched it into his pants, took it off and folded it neatly. Turning to his chair, turning his back to Dean, he placed it atop his jacket. His breathing started to come in hurried pants as he imagined Dean closing with him, imagined hands coming to rest on his shoulders, his back, his sides, his breasts, his hips.

No touch came, though.

Castiel turned to face Dean once more, the chill of air conditioning and the heat of anticipation causing his nipples to harden. His chest gave small stutters with each eager breath. He raked Dean up and down with his eyes, gaze lingered on the bulge in his jeans. A slow smile won over Castiel’s face at the growing tension and want evident in Dean’s body language. He had his belt off and his hands on the button of his trousers before he allowed their eyes to meet once more. Dean’s pupils were black with want, and a swallow caused Dean’s throat to contract and relax, caused a shiver through Castiel as he pictured those pink lips wrapped around him, the way those swallows felt when he was inside of Dean’s mouth. His skin tingled with desperation, need trilled a song of urgency in his head and through his grace, and his dick twitched with desire. The build of anticipation was delicious, and he forced himself to continue moving slowly, to allow that feeling to build, knowing how good it would make them both feel when they finally made love.

The button on his pants came loose with a flick and he dropped the zipper. The pants settled low on his hips, kept from dropping to around his ankles only by the bulge of his erection, the swell of his butt and the snagging friction of the cloth against his boxers. Allowing them to retain their precarious position, Castiel bent double, untied and removed his shoes, setting the pair on the ugly gray carpet beside the flimsy folding chair.

“Cas…” Dean breathed his name into the charged air between them, sound shivering through grace and soul almost like – but agonizingly far from actually being – a physical touch against Castiel’s skin.

Snagging his socks, Castiel removed those as well, straightening, taking the time to smooth and flatten the pair before bundling them into a ball, squatting and stuffing them into one of his shoes. The position spread his cheeks, drawing the thin fabric of his boxers taut. His hips swayed with the motion and the trousers pulled lower over his butt. A growl of desire escaped Dean’s throat. Impatience tried to spur Castiel to haste, his breath coming so quickly that his vision blurred at the edges, his skin goosebumped at the light shiver of air against his flesh. Even the slight abrasion of his trousers brushing against his boxer shorts caused his cock to twitch, his insides to give a hot flip of relief and desire. He _needed_ to be touched. As he rose, the pants fell to the floor. He stepped free of them, hooked a thumb under the waistband of his boxers, and pulled them down, withdrew each foot slowly, tauntingly, lifting his eyes to stare up at Dean. Green eyes were nearly subsumed with black, Dean’s expression was so rigid that Castiel knew that restraint was costing Dean as much as it was costing Castiel. The thought spread his smile to a grin. Lifting pants and shorts from the ground, Castiel folded both despite the uncontrollable shaking in his hands. His grace throbbed in time to his heartbeat, clawing at his conscious control, desperate to flood the room.

Pleasure peppered Castiel in tiny jolts, Dean’s soul throbbing around the grace embedded within it. A flush reddened Castiel’s cheeks and a gasp escaped his lips. Throughout the room, twinkling bursts of light like fireflies skittered, materialized and dissipated. Naked and unashamed and starving for the beautiful man standing so near and yet so far from him, Castiel walked past Dean, meeting staring green eyes with a bright, blue-eyed challenge. The springs protested as Castiel sat on edge of the bed and lay on his back to rest on his elbows, spreading his legs in invitation. He exposed his hole, showed tight balls nestled amidst curly black hairs. His cock rested against the line of his pelvis, shifting with slight, involuntary movements, reacting to every sensation, every tempting thought that spawned in Castiel’s imagination.

With a wicked smile, Castiel asked, “Was that what you had in mind, Dean?” His voice was guttural and ragged under Dean’s ardent gaze.

Dean swallowed hard and licked his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice every bit as blown by lust as Castiel’s. “Wow.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean brought a hand to his crotch, palming hard at his cock.

“Stop, Dean,” snarled Castiel. Dean gave a shocked moan and tore his hand from himself, bunching it into a tight fist. “You said I was ‘holding out on you.’ Now, who is holding out on whom?”

“Still you,” Dean’s grin was thick with mischief, his dark eyes sparkled with desire. Flares of power continued throughout the room, pelting Castiel with bliss like a downpour, enough to inundate him, to stimulate him with paltry bursts that could never sate but wore at his self-control. Dean’s statement hardly processed beneath the enticing onslaught. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Castiel reached out with his grace and enfolded Dean’s body, nudging him to come closer. Resisting, Dean held his ground, but he shucked his flannel shirt and threw it negligently towards the table, exposing the thickly corded muscles of his powerful arms, revealing the black t-shirt that clung to every hard plane of his torso. For an instant, Castiel was convinced those arms were around him, that the body he adored atop him, that the brilliant soul permeated him, and he moaned and wantonly rubbed his back and buttocks against the thin mattress. The angry screech of the tortured bed frame pulled him from the fantasy, and he moaned again at the loss.

“I’m not asking you spread your legs, Cas.”

“What, then?” Castiel grunted. Grace curled around the zipper of Dean’s fly and lowered it, allowing a bulge of dark cloth to escape. Dean’s hips rolled into the heat of the grace pooled before him and a rapturous expression washed over his face, leaving him slack-jawed and flushed. However, he still didn’t approach, and Castiel gave a frustrated snort.

Before he could act again, sensation flooded him. Dean’s soul blew over Castiel, a series of feather-light, brief touches. Unspeakable, gorgeous power rubbed Castiel’s scalp, trailed along his lips, twanged staccato notes over his nipples, dripped like ice water down his spine, squeezed pre-come out of his cock, flicked through the liquid that beaded at his slit, dipped into him to tease at his most sensitive nerves. One hard, unbelievably hot, tight thrust filled him completely then withdrew. Each brush drew increasingly desperate whimpers from Castiel’s throat. By the time Dean was done, Castiel wasn’t sure if he was begging aloud or if it was only in his thoughts that he pleaded, screamed for Dean to touch him, to just _fuck him_ already.

A low chuckle won through his thoughts, and with difficulty he forced his eyes into focus. Dean had a white-knuckled grip on his own hips, the cloth at his fly shifting as the hard cock it hid bobbled with desire. Despite his arousal, Dean’s expression was all confidence, control, and smugness.

“Your wings, Cas.”

“What?” said Castiel, blinking, the words temporarily meaningless in the current context.

Dean’s voice took on a conversational tone, his apparent ease belied by the gruff, raspy dryness of every word, the deliberateness with which he spoke. “A month ago, I thought I was pretty clear. Holding you, running my fingers through your feathers, feeling you fucking _shattering_ at the least brush of my hand?” A shudder ran through Dean’s body, and Dean’s cock won through his boxers with a particularly violent twitch, head red with blood, streaked with pre-come that ran wetly over the smooth skin to be absorbed by the cloth. “Easily, hands down, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced. Yet, since then – nothing, not a single God damned feather. You’re holding out on me, Cas, and I want to know why.”

A ghostly breeze – the shivering vibration of a complex chord – played over Castiel’s thick, hard length. “Please, Dean,” he whispered. “Touch me, please…”

“Bring out those beautiful wings,” urged Dean. Dean’s soul withdrew from playing with Castiel’s mingled grace, the dancing lights that had filled the room faded to nothing. Heat throbbed through Castiel’s body, his grace straining for more, for everything, for _Dean_. The need was so powerful that Castiel felt like he was discorporating from his vessel even as the flesh continued to completely imprison him with desire. “Why’ve you been keeping ‘um from me?”

“Worried…” Castiel gasped out. “Didn’t want…to cause you discomfort… _again_.”

“Did it feel good?” Dean growled out. The hunter took a step towards Castiel, and even though several more divided them, relief that Dean was coming closer combined with his craving for Dean to touch him and forced a sob through his lips. The expression of Castiel’s desperation earned him a low, rumbling groan, but still there was no touch on his aching body, no brush against his frantic grace.

“Please, Dean…”

“When I touched your wings, did it feel good?” demanded Dean, taking another step forward.

“Yes!” cried Castiel, tears obscuring his vision, rolling down his cheeks. “ _God_ , yes, yes, it was fantastic. It was incomparable. Please, Dean!”

With another criminally breathy chuckle, Dean covered the remaining space between them. Carefully, deliberately, cruelly avoiding the least touch, Dean climbed onto the bed, metal frame squealing, and straddled him. Weight resting on his knees and hands, Dean hovered close enough over Castiel that the heat of his body radiated against pale flesh. Castiel’s heart stuttered and raced at the seemingly unbridgeable distance, Dean’s presence so close and yet so far. Dean’s soul surrounded and encompassed his entire body without actually coming into contact with him at any point. With desperate, incoherent pleas, Castiel’s grace stretched towards that wonderful, beloved heat, but with impressive finesse, Dean dodged and withdrew and avoided Castiel’s every attempt. Green eyes pinned Castiel’s physical body to the mattress.

“Dean,” he mouthed, or maybe he screamed, or maybe he whimpered, or maybe the word never left his lips at all.

Smirking, Dean shifted his weight forward, bending low over him. The cloth of Dean’s shirt just brushed Castiel’s chest, Dean’s cheek – shaved smooth for once – just scuffed against Castiel’s stubble, Dean’s lips just moistened the lobe of Castiel’s ear.

“Spread ‘um, Cas,” Dean exhaled into his ear, breath hot and wet and as palpable as a touch.

Castiel’s grace erupted outward. Every shred of self-control he had left went to preventing his angelic form from completely winning free as grace expanded, spread, sang with delight. Castiel’s body thrashed against the mattress as his wings coalesced, emerging from his bare back, and the springs protested with an agonizingly discordant note at the movement and the increase in his weight. His body surged up from the bed, and Dean caught him, shifted to rest between his legs, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, another around his waist, dragging them both into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, their bodies pressed close together. The brush of Dean’s clothing against Castiel chest, usually a relatively delicate sensation, was positively lewd. Unable to restrain himself, Castiel threw his arms around Dean’s neck, wrapped his legs around Dean’s hips, rubbed against every inch of the hunter’s body that he could touch, moaning and crying with desperation. It felt so good, yet it wasn’t enough; after so much delay, he needed so much more.

“Sorry,” muttered Dean. Damn him, the man still had was so self-possessed, while Castiel was once again crazy with desire for him. The hand around Castiel’s shoulders massaged at the top of his spine and around his neck in a way he suspected was meant to be soothing, but only served to drive home where Dean _wasn’t_ touching him. “Guess I pushed that too far…maybe we need a safe word or—”

“Touch me,” Castiel sobbed against his shoulder. “God, Dean, please, please, touch my wings, please, I need you to, please, why aren’t you touching me, anything, I’ll do anything, please…” The words trailed into incoherent mumbles choked with in tears.

“What wings?” Dean asked blankly. The hand he had clasped about Castiel’s waist trailed up, sweeping over the skin of his back towards his spine. Dean’s entire body went stiff when his fingers found taut muscle, sinew, and downy feathers. “Oh,” murmured Dean, voice deep with lust. Nails toyed at the delicate tendon where the feathers met the supporting flesh, mussing the down, and Castiel wrapped himself around Dean convulsively as unspeakable ecstasy flooded every corner of his being. “Ohhhh,” moaned Dean. Pleasure ripped through Castiel’s body, chimed through his grace and every piece of Dean’s soul embedded within him, and the utterly blissful feeling inundated them both. The hunter buried his fingers deeper amidst the feathers and groaned. “Sorry, Cas…didn’t realize I wouldn’t be able to see…oh, fuck…” Dean’s fingers carded between the powerful outer feathers and the soft semiplumes scattered amongst them. “That feel good?”

Frantic nodding was all Castiel could manage by way of answer. Hands and soul trailed through the semi-corporealized grace that formed the appendages, ineffably good. The sensation was utterly overwhelming, beyond anything Castiel had experienced. It was even better than the first time, when Dean’s fingers had stroked through Castiel’s wings but his soul had kept distant. With soul and grace bound together, Dean had enough conscious control to work his gorgeous power between every pinion, play complex chords that sent vibrations through every vane, every barb, every barbule. Castiel’s mortal skin chafed against Dean’s body, Dean’s hips rutted against him and applied blissful pressure and friction to Castiel’s desperate cock, his grace and Dean’s soul harmonized, Dean’s perfection ruffled over his wings. It was too much. It was far, far, too much.

“Dean!” Castiel howled. He didn’t climax. He came completely apart.

The world disappeared in exaltation, pleasure so intense it crossed the blurry line between delight and agony, and Castiel was lost.

The first thing that Castiel became aware of was a voice speaking, husky, low and shattered, so muffled that he almost couldn’t understand it, so soft he wasn’t positive he was hearing it at all.

“No, stop, please, you have to stop…”

“Cas?” Dean sounded frightened, anxious and…guilty? Castiel tried to move and reassure him, but he couldn’t. That should have troubled him, but he lacked adequate awareness for the thought to fully form. Only a vague sense of unease fretted at him. All he could truly focus on was the litany he heard.

“…oh _God_ that’s good, it’s too good, you have to stop…have to stop…”

Slowly, other senses returned. His skin felt taut, tight and inelastic. The brush of rough cloth against him stung and tingled like a burn. His mouth was parched. His muscles were tense and rigid, his entire body clenched around someone – himself, he realized. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the bones of his knees, against his chest he could feel his thighs, the backs of his heels were pressed against his butt. His grace huddled deep within him, a tight, incandescent ball of celestial power compressed to nearly a single point, hiding willingly within the confines of what had once been the prison where he’d kept it trapped when he’d futilely sought to keep himself separate from Dean.

“I’m begging you, Dean, stop…” It was his voice speaking. His breath ruffled through the hairs on his legs. “Don’t touch me, please don’t touch me, I can’t…” He couldn’t make the words stop, lips working dryly, even that slight touch causing his skin to ache.

“Fuck, Cas,” breathed Dean brokenly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 _I have to comfort him. I have to tell him it’s alright – that I’m alright_.

“Don’t, Dean…don’t…don’t worry…”

He had no idea if he was alright.

Opening his eyes had never been so difficult. The effort was unrewarded. All he could see was shades of pink and black where light seeped through the small gap between his legs. One locked finger at a time, he forced his hands to release from where they were wrapped around his legs. Dean gave a heavy sigh of relief and the mattress shifted nearby with the shrill sound of metal grating on metal. Warmth approached Castiel’s seared skin, the warmth of flesh, the far more intense heat of Dean’s soul. With a soundless burst of music, notes coming together to form the adored name, Castiel’s grace sprang towards Dean. Instinctually, Dean’s soul jerked back and then spread to embrace Castiel, completely cradle and encompass him, humming a sad song of sorrow, contrition, and consolation.

Muscles that felt like they’d forgotten how to do anything but engage at maximum strength protested as he forced his arm to move, forced his elbow to bend, forced strained skin to painfully stretch to accommodate the motion of the underlying muscle and bone. Reaching uncertainly towards Dean’s warmth, his tightly curled body shifted against the mattress and he rolled on to his back to find his wings gone once more. Cold fingers wrapped around his hand with a burst of relief from each of them. Rough lips brushed gently against the skin of the back of his hand.

“Cas, I’m sorry, I didn’t…I don’t…” Dean mumbled against his flesh.

“Dean, you have nothing to apologize for,” croaked Castiel. “I’m sorry I caused you so much distress. What happened?”

“What do you remember?” asked Dean uncertainly. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever heard Dean sound more vulnerable, not even when they’d first begun to explore the interest each had privately nursed for so long, not even when Dean had dreaded being told his soul was impure. Dean’s soul whispered love against Castiel’s cowering grace, easing him, relaxing him, and Castiel wished he had the words to bring Dean equivalent comfort. The tightness that kept Castiel curled into a fetal ball on the bed began to fade, his legs sagged away from his chest, his head drooped against the mattress. The room became visible in blobs of blurry color, puce walls, gray curtains and carpet, off white bedding, incandescent lines of sunshine peaking between the dully glowing squares covering the window. Castiel winced and rolled away from the light, towards Dean’s comforting presence.

“You were holding me,” Castiel replied, sifting through memories suffused with hot, bright arousal. “You were touching my wings. It felt amazing.” His eyes sought Dean’s and found them only thanks to the glow of soul that sparked golden in them. Other than that, Dean remained out of focus, a muddle of reddened skin and dark fabric. Dean’s thumb rubbed tenderly against the center of Castiel’s palm, spreading strength and reassurance through Castiel’s vessel even as Dean’s soul continued to spread strength and reassurance through Castiel’s grace. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I think I had an orgasm…?”

Dean gave an ironic chuckle. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “Yeah, you could say that, Cas.” Dean dropped his head to rest against the back of Castiel’s hand, blocking Castiel’s view of Dean’s eyes. An inarticulate sound of unhappiness leaked through Castiel’s. Startled, Dean shifted to meet Castiel’s gaze again. “Uh…you kind of…exploded…” He paused expectantly, but Castiel had no idea what he could say to that. “There was light…your grace? Well, now we know I can look at you.” His shoulders shook with a silent, humorless laugh. “Nothing much to see, though, only the light. Gave us both one fucking doozy of a sunburn, though.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel repeated. With effort, he got his legs under him and sat up. The bed creaked. “I—”

“You screamed the whole time,” Dean continued, dejected. “Shit. I thought…I thought…” Dean’s soul bundled around Castiel’s grace protectively, desperately, fear evident in the strained notes that filled the air. Castiel reached out and wiped a tear from the corner of Dean’s eye. “I can’t lose you, Cas.”

“Dean—” His eyesight came into focus.

“I shouldn’t have teased you so much…”

“Dean…” Coherency returned to his thoughts. Even the pain faded to the background as reason and calm returned.

“I never want to hurt you, Cas,” Dean whispered, his gaze falling to the grayed sheets between them. “I never want to let you down. Didn’t mean to—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted firmly. “Neither of us had any way of knowing what my reaction would be to that intensity of feeling.” Effortlessly, he overpowered Dean’s grip and dragged both their hands to Dean’s chin, using a finger to force the hunter to look up and meet his eyes. “If I had wanted you to stop, I could have stopped you. I didn’t want you to stop. I begged you to touch my wings.”

“It felt so _good_ ,” Dean breathed the words like a man confessing to a damning sin.

“Yes, it did,” agreed Castiel with a smile he meant to be supportive. Judging by the way Dean blanched, Castiel’s effort was less than successful. “How did you learn to prepare someone for anal sex?”

Dean blinked. “That’s relevant…how?”

“How did you first learn how, Dean?” he repeated insistently.

Pursing his lips in a way that made Castiel want to kiss him despite the tense unhappiness filling the room, Dean glanced Heavenward and considered. “The first guy I was with showed me,” he said. “He prepped himself before we…you know…” He trailed off with incongruous shyness.

“I’m under no illusions that I was your first, Dean,” said Castiel with a smirk. Dean flushed red enough that it showed despite his sunburned cheeks, a deep crimson. Troubled by the unhealthy shade, Castiel cast a simple healing spell. The sunburn faded and Dean heaved a relieved sigh, scrunching up his face, wiggling his nose. It was easily the cutest expression Castiel had ever seen on his face. The smirk faded to a gentle smile that reinforced Dean’s blush.

“Thanks,” Dean muttered. “So, yeah. Someone else taught me.”

“But you knew how to make love to me without preparation and without hurting me,” Castiel said. “How did you learn that?”

“The hard way.” There was a glimmer of understanding on Dean’s face. “There was this one time – I picked up this guy, neither of us had lube, we thought that a lubricated condom would be good enough. It wasn’t.”

“You hurt him unintentionally?” Dean nodded silent agreement. “So,” Castiel continued conversationally. “The first time you engaged in wing play with an angel, how did you learn how to prevent injury to the mortal and the angel involved?” Troubled, Dean grimaced. “Well, Dean?” The grimace deepened into a scowl. “That’s what I thought. You’ve never had a similar experience. My knowledge of wing play was not comparable. We didn’t know. Now we do. We can try again and be more careful next time.”

“You want to try again?” asked Dean, surprise wiping the scowl away.

“I am older than humanity, and your hands on my wings is the second most remarkable sensation I’ve ever experienced,” Castiel said. “Yes, I absolutely want to try again, unless you don’t wish to.”

“Second most remarkable, huh?” grinned Dean, but it didn’t take sensing Dean’s emotions to hear the jealous inadequacy behind the words. “Man, what’s a guy got to do to get first place?”

“He has to merge his glorious, gleaming soul with my grace,” deadpanned Castiel. “It’s a very high standard to meet.”

Swiftly, with a choked off sound, Dean surged forward and planted his lips on Castiel’s. Despite his aggressive move to bring them together, Dean’s mouth was incredibly gentle. Smiling into the kiss, Castiel eliminated the twinges of pain from his seared skin by healing himself as he’d healed Dean. Affectionate fingers cupped Castiel’s cheek and Dean kissed him again and again, tender, soft, no tongue, no teeth, just masterful, plush flesh working against his. Faint arousal trailed sparks through Castiel’s blood. Dean’s soul relaxed his vigilant care of Castiel’s grace, and the two flowed together, quietly cooing the notes of a scale to each other, pooling together to fill the room with a revitalizing, safe glow.

Drawing away slightly, Dean mouthed against Castiel’s lips, “you okay, angel?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said soothingly. “How do you feel?”

“You scared the shit outta me, Cas,” Dean confessed. Shifting, Dean drew Castiel into his arms, wrapping his jean-clad legs around Castiel’s bare ones as they both sat on the bed, pressing his chest to Castiel’s back, trapping the cloth of Dean’s t-shirt between them, embracing Castiel’s body, pinning Castiel’s arms with his own. Slow, long breaths drew them closer together, further apart, their inhalations and exhalations synching. The mattress sagged beneath them. Dean’s lips worked tenderly against the curve of Castiel’s neck, the skin of his upper back, the shell of his ear. The embrace was wonderful, safe, loving. Several times, Castiel felt Dean’s jaw move, his mouth open as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing. Blessedly cherished and comfortable, Castiel drifted somewhere between peaceful sleep and serene wakefulness. His head slumped forward, his body went limp and would have collapsed if not for Dean’s strong arms holding their bodies together.

A long time passed, the room gradually growing dim as the hour grew later.

“You awake?” murmured Dean at length. Castiel nodded. Dean continued, tone affectionate, “You’ve engaged in kinky wing shit before?”

“Other angels and I have, yes,” Castiel confirmed, drowsiness fuzzing the words.

“So, like, angels have sex?” Dean’s arms tensed, his tone curious.

“Not exactly,” Castiel fumbled at his sluggish thoughts, trying to figure out how to explain in terms that Dean could understand. “It’s similar in that both experiences involved the production of pleasure. However, it is dissimilar in that there is no physical component. We interact incorporeally. It bears a resemblance to the way in which my grace and your soul combine. Further, it doesn’t involve an orgasm, arousal, or other components you would recognize as part of conventional sex.”

“If no one comes, how do you know you’re done?” said Dean with barely suppressed laughter.

“Without that tangible end point, grace merging can be quite time consuming,” Castiel agreed with bland seriousness, lips quirked in a smile.

“How time consuming?”

“The era now known as the Neolithic Age was often quite dull,” said Castiel. Anticipation began to curl in his gut. Dean didn’t seem at all alarmed by the prospect of how angels pleasured each other. Dean’s interest communicated clearly. “I’ve heard of angels on particularly inactive garrison duty merging their graces for decades.”

“Decades?” choked Dean.

“Yes,” Castiel continued blithely, unable to repress a knowing smile and a shiver of temptation at the thought of using nothing but his grace to delight Dean’s soul. “I myself once spent 461 Earth days mingling with another. It was very pleasant.”

“Pleasant,” Dean echoed faintly.

“I was off duty, of course,” said Castiel. “It was a kindness of our Father, to give us that outlet as a means of recreation. Angels have so little free time, and we experience only a limited range of emotions when we do not have vessels. Some angels grow too fond of the feeling. I once heard a story about—” Soul surged and groped awkwardly at Castiel’s grace, wavelengths stretching out, sound and light struggling to find a comfortable rhythm. A low moan leaked through Dean’s lips. “No, no,” murmured Castiel. The fumbling touch against his grace bloomed heat in his gut despite Dean’s ineptitude. There was no aspect of Dean’s soul, no aspect of Dean, that wasn’t enticing. “Like this.”

Closing his eyes, Castiel allowed his awareness to encompass the entire room, every vibration of sound, every glow of energy. Dean’s soul radiated intensely, oscillating with music, pulsating with light. The precise frequency of each, the way each interacted, was unique to Dean, unique to this moment and this place. Castiel let the waves wash over him, through his grace. When he had a grasp on exactly the tune that Dean was playing, Castiel waited until the waves crested, and at that precise moment, he allowed the low ebb of his grace’s vibrations to brush against Dean’s soul. A harmonious tolling sound, audible even to a mortal ear, peeled through the room, and Dean groaned hugely against his back. Castiel’s head jerked back, slamming into Dean’s shoulder, at the intensity of the pleasure that coursed through him. It had been centuries since Castiel had last done this. He’d only been an angel then, and Anael’s grace was like a candle beside the sun of Dean’s soul.

“Was that alright, Dean?” Castiel asked breathily.

“Fuck yeah, Cas,” Dean nodded fervently against his cheek, rubbing their faces together. The physical sensations made a strange counterpoint to the spiritual awareness that filled Castiel’s mind.

The waves continued to rise and fall in counterpoint, brushing at every extremity, coursing light and ecstasy at every touch. Dean’s cock twitched, lengthened, hardened against Castiel’s butt. With practiced finesse, Castiel manipulated exactly when the waves touched, how often, for how long. The air electrified with the feeling. They were both breathing heavily, physical bodies unavoidably aroused. Dean tried to follow Castiel’s lead, awkward movements causing discordant notes like unschooled hands on the keys of a piano, like the inexperienced fingers of a virgin on sensitive flesh. Embarrassment swelled at each uncomfortable, inept touch, and Castiel soothed and forgave Dean, filling in the unpleasant gaps in their duet with resplendent light and pure tones. Gasping, Dean’s flesh quivered as he pressed into Castiel’s back. Despite the lingering stress from earlier, Castiel began to thicken between his legs. Dean’s pleasure flooded his mind through their connection, his desire, his curiosity. With a release of physical tension, Dean gave up on aiding Castiel and surrendered entirely to what he was feeling. A surge of joy suffused Castiel. Dean trusted him and wanted him to continue. Dean accepted unequivocally that Castiel was taking the lead on this. No matter what, Castiel would make this good for him.

Creating an obstacle of pure grace, Castiel forced the flow of Dean’s soul to bend and contort around it, sound and light reverberating. The echoes rocked through Castiel’s entire being and he let out a low groan, throaty, rough over his aching throat. He reforming the grace as a prism, and Dean’s soul rippled through the incorporeal surface to spread about the room in a rainbow of notes and colors, some visible, some audible, dancing along the purple walls. Shudders wracked Dean’s body, his fingers grasping at Castiel’s side.

“Castiel,” he whispered, tone thick with wonder and arousal. A triumphal smile twisted Castiel’s lips. He’d never heard that desperate hint of want in Dean’s beautiful voice. He wanted to hear more of it. He wanted to take Dean apart, put him back together without the depression that so often plagued him and bring Dean pleasure such as he’d never dreamed of. Castiel had been afraid that Dean would deny Castiel the absolute trust necessary to engage in spiritual play. Adoration pulsed through him that Dean had accepted this, and Dean groaned desperately against his back as Castiel’s emotions translated into a cascade of notes and colors that danced between them.

Grace coalesced to form rippled mirrors, catching the light of Dean’s soul. The colors fractured, refracting and reflecting until the walls were painted with random splashes of dazzling light. As the colors multiplied, as Dean’s soul diffracted, as it became more integrated with Castiel’s grace, Dean whimpered against Castiel’s neck, his cock throbbing against Castiel’s back. Through their connection, the overflow of stimulation swirled through Castiel’s body, and he took confidence from the certainty that he wasn’t pushing Dean too far. He’d learned his lesson on taking things slow as they explored each other. Delicately, he manipulated his grace to bring the random colors into harmony, patiently working until the light coating the walls formed patterns like a kaleidoscope. The moment when the soul formed a coherent pattern seared through Castiel like a flash of lightning, swirled him like a hurricane, and that was a fraction of what Dean felt. Hot breath rushed over Castiel’s cheek, Dean’s mouth open wide though he was beyond vocalizing. Bliss had the hunter trembling against Castiel’s back, arms growing limp against his stomach, and Castiel struggled against his own rising pleasure to hold his grace steady, to keep the configuration from shifting so that Dean could grow accustomed to the feeling.

“Open your eyes, Dean,” Castiel kept his closed. He didn’t need mortal vision to see the spectacular images projected around them.

“What is that?” Dean whispered in awe.

“You,” murmured Castiel. “God, you’re beautiful.” Castiel twisted his grace, minutely altered the angle of every magically reflective surface, and the colors shifted and changed and moved and Dean buried his face against the side of Castiel’s face and neck, groaned as Castiel had never heard before, and ground his hips against Castiel’s back. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Thank you for this.” Gratitude changed the density of the prism, and the wavelengths of Dean’s soul scattered incandescent pinpricks across the walls like the Milky Way stretched across the sky. Panting against Castiel’s neck, Dean rutted urgently against him as best he could, inarticulate sounds leaking from the back of his throat. The heat of Dean’s pleasure was intense enough to leave Castiel light headed, but he kept the feelings at bay with difficulty. Dean was handling everything Castiel had done thus far, which meant he could do more.

Incorporeal tubes formed, grace given just enough solidity to channel the song that Dean’s soul sang. The music purred through the tubes, amplified like thin tremors reverberating through organ pipes, changing pitch, combining with Castiel’s own song, until chords formed beyond what any instrument could make, beyond what any chorus of thousands could sing. Another groan was ripped from Dean’s throat, and despite himself Castiel echoed him with a low moan. Castiel had heard the entire celestial choir, but he’d never heard anything as mellifluous as the music that he and Dean created together. Their vocalized delight bounced through the tubes, combined with the music, merged with it, amplified it, created feedback between the magic and their bodies.

“Ca…oh, Cas…please…Cas…this is…it’s amazing…amazing…Cas…please don’t stop…don’t stop, Castiel, don’t stop…” Dean’s wrecked voice was like the most pure note played on the finest instrument ever made, tingling through Castiel’s body.

The words incorporated effortlessly into the song. The metal bed frame screeched, and even that grating note integrated seamlessly into the miracle of Dean’s song. Castiel gasped as the music and light enveloped him and enfolded his vessel, transported him beyond his flesh. Light flooded the room like priceless stained glass, music flooded the room like the most devoted of hymns filling the domed expanse of the most vast, perfectly constructed cathedral. This was Revelation. This was the Lord’s touch on Earth. His control of his grace began to slip under the strain of how much of Dean’s brilliance he was channeling and how enraptured they both felt. Dean’s soul was so _powerful_ , so _spectacular_ , so _blessed_ ,Castiel couldn’t believe it. With a sudden profound burst of understanding, Castiel knew that when God saved him after Lucifer murdered him, it was this that he had been saved to experience. All of Castiel’s existence had led to this one moment.

Tentatively, a fragment of the soul nestled within Castiel’s grace twisted, folded, solidified, and a single chord of Castiel’s grace broke in to its component colors and notes to intersperse amongst Dean’s. “Just like that,” Castiel managed through an irrepressible, deep groan.

“Feels so good, Cas…”

Delicate manipulation was beyond him, but he did his best, channeled their combined colors into constellations, into representations in light and sound of Castiel’s profound love and devotion for the mortal he had given all to save. Dean tensed against him, close to the edge. Castiel’s control shook and trembled, the notes and colors blurring. Hot white flashes in his head blanked his magical sight. He wouldn’t leave Dean unsatisfied, he had to keep himself from his climax, had to—

Fingers wrapped weakly, loosely, around Castiel’s cock.

The amplifying tubes vanished in a burst of random trills and musical elides. He held onto the prism through sheer willpower as Dean stroked him clumsily and heat and pleasure from his physical body met the sheer jubilation coursing through his grace. The mirrors shattered into cascades of sparklers like fireworks, uncountable miniscule slivers of silvered grace. The rainbow of Dean’s soul caught on every sliver and refracted and broke into infinite wavelengths, only for an instant, and Dean wordlessly screamed bliss into Castiel’s ear, breaking off into frantic half-thrusts against him. Pre-come and sweat combined to smooth the strokes as Dean’s cock glided along the based Castiel’s spine. Elation and euphoria washed through Castiel as the complex interplay between them began to dissolve back into a single whole, endlessly entwined, increasingly indivisible soul and grace. A profoundly satisfied sound built in Dean’s chest, a growl that reverberated through both of their bodies, tingled through every place where their flesh touched.

“Cas,” the growl built into a broken, guttural moan. “Fuck, Cas.” Dean’s arms twitched, muscles spasming, his grip on Castiel’s dick tensing and relaxing but no longer stroking. “That’s…” Hips stuttered unevenly against Castiel’s back. “Gonna…gonna come, gonna come from you…” The tight embrace suddenly went slack as Dean collapsed against him and moaned so brokenly that Castiel thought Dean might be crying. “Fucking _Christ_.”Thick, hot liquid spurted out to paint Castiel’s back, and Dean’s soul enveloped every vibration of Castiel’s grace simultaneously, synching pitch and luminosity. Diaphanous light and triumphal music filled the room.

A deep, wordless cry of satisfaction erupted from Castiel as his entire being – vessel, grace and all – pulsated and throbbed and burst, coating Dean’s hand with semen, coating Dean’s soul with a patina of angelhood that could not dull the incandescent shine of flawless humanity.

With a twisting, rending squeal, the bed frame gave way beneath their weight, dropping the mattress to the floor and tumbling them both onto their backs. A metal rod poked nearly all the way through the flimsy mattress into Castiel’s side, and he weakly flopped over to avoid it, landing on Dean, who grunted and fumbled an arm around him.

“We broke the bed, Cas,” rumbled Dean, chuckling low. The bobble of his chest rippled through Castiel, whose own guttural chuckle was closer to giggling. “Never done _that_ before.” The idea was inordinately funny. Dean caught Castiel’s laughter, and they both rolled on the crushed bed frame and thin mattress, gasping and crying in delighted amusement, writhing against each other as if they could somehow bring their bodies to the same unity that their inner selves shared. Between every celestial wave of his grace, Castiel could feel Dean like the warp and weft of the most beautiful tapestry ever woven, like the notes of the most intricate canon ever composed.

It felt like an eternity before their humor finally subsided. Neither bothered to move, the broken sofa adequate, barely, to support their replete bodies and satisfied thoughts. Dean, still clothed, curled around Castiel’s naked body protectively and Castiel pressed happily into the warm embrace, cocooned physically and magically. Legs tucked against his, arms enfolded his back and cradled his head, fingers teased through his hair, skin touched his at as many points as possible. He returned the embrace happily, an arm against Dean’s back, the other lost in his sweaty hair.

 _Perfect_.

Castiel wished they could stay so close forever. A faint whisper of fear trickled through his thoughts, what _forever_ meant to an angel, what _forever_ meant to a mortal. Despite the hunger, the thirst, the need for sleep that had come with their merging, Castiel _was_ still an angel, and Dean was still a man. Despite himself, Castiel tensed, held Dean more tightly, more desperately. He never wanted to lose this. He couldn’t lose this.

“Castiel,” Dean breathed in his ear. ““I love you.”

The words were so soft that Castiel would have thought he’d imagined them if not for the accompanying eruption of joy from Dean’s soul. They were words he’d not even dreamed of hearing. Even his ideal of a relationship with Dean, manifest in the Djinn dream he’d suffered 3 months before, hadn’t conceived of Dean speaking those words to him. It was impossible and wonderful.

 _Absolutely perfect_.

Unquestioning faith and trust flooded him, such as that which Castiel had reserved solely for his Father in Heaven. That was how Dean felt about him, that devotion, that worship. It was how he felt about Dean as well. It was awe-inspiring.

_Completely, utterly perfect._

“I love you too, Dean,” he murmured, mouthing tenderly against the salty, tanned skin of Dean’s tendoned neck. He melted against the hunter, all fears quieted, all worries gone. Those were problems for another time. When Dean died, he would go to Heaven – he _would_ – and no matter what, Castiel would always find him no matter where we went.

Neither moved save to breathe, laying close and basking in wonder and disbelief and acceptance of what the other offered so willingly, so openly, so completely, for the first time.

The room grew dark before either of them spoke.

“I bet I could make you come just by touching your wings,” Dean’s words were slurred. Castiel shifted to see his face, and was met by an expression so bemused that Castiel wondered if he even knew what he’d just said.

“I’m sure you could.” The mere thought sent a shiver through Castiel’s spent body.

“Next time,” Dean opened his eyes and looked down at him, intense yet gentle, searching yet uncritical.“Next time, you’re gonna do whatever the fuck you just did, and I’m gonna play with your wings ‘til the sound of you groaning my name drowns out that entire fucking celestial choir you made outta the two of us, and we’re gonna keep going until we both lose our fucking minds.” A finger made lazy circles through Castiel’s hair, and Castiel trailed a hand tantalizingly down Dean’s spine, drawing a longing shudder and the faint whisper of a moan from Dean.

“I would like that.”

He would _love_ that.

This was it. This…whatever they had…this was _everything_.

There was an urgent, heavy pounding on the door. “Guys?” Sam said, voice concerned. “Dean, Cas, you okay? You weren’t answering your cell. We’ve got to talk. This is big.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...hope all that metaphysical stuff worked...and still managed to be a little hot...angel sex is weird to write. :)
> 
> To explain a few references:
> 
> 1\. I worked on this yesterday while I was at a music festival in upstate New York called Old Songs. When I needed an FBI pseudonym for Dean, I picked a name from the list of performers. That's why the name "FBI Agent Jez Lowe" is not familiar from classic rock - it's actually a folk performer. :)
> 
> 2\. ["Feel Like Making Love" by Bad Company on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEuKkcX1uKA)
> 
> 3\. ["O Magnum Mysterium," this version of Morten Lauridsen, on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7ch7uottHU)
> 
> Oh, and I've been trying to do a better job at tagging this entire series. If you have any ideas, let me know...I stink at tagging...
> 
> As usual, I take requests for this series! If you've got a favorite type of story or some form of smut that floats your boat that I haven't done yet (or that I have but you want more of!), speak up, and I'll see what I can do. Requests are undertaken in the order they are received. Current queue is:
> 
> Part 9: All the angst (you've been warned...)  
> Part 10: More semi-public sex


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